Late night, early morning

Lights firing inside my head,

perhaps, afraid one day they will go out.

I follow her constant breathing, with envy at each effortless sigh,

hoping soon my mind will wander or be distracted by morpheus touch.

I turn, torturing myself,

shifting weight.

Processing, clearing, exploring yesterday and the day ahead.

I hope for rest, but a pretension lives on,

where this malady is some inspirational disease.

I fear it is a curse.



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